Tinseltown Confidential Page 5

  He kept his face in neutral while she spewed out the details of her horrible day. When she was done, he asked, “Did you really hit Leo with your purse?”

  Kathryn grimaced. “I do kind of feel bad about that. But he was treating me like a four-year-old, telling me what I can and can’t do.”

  “He does have a stake in all this—both personally and professionally.”

  “Okay, so I behaved like a bitch. I get it.”

  He leaned his head on a hand and slow-blinked at her. “En route to Italy last year, I wanted to stop off in New York. But I had to be on the set of Quo Vadis so I didn’t see it.”

  “You want me to send a picture postcard?”

  He sandwiched her hand between his and kissed her fingertips. “I’m suggesting that I meet you in New York. We could take a carriage ride in Central Park. Climb the Statue of Liberty. Catch a Broadway show—I hear The King and I is marvelous. Shall we dance, pom pom pom!”

  “That does sound fun.”

  “And maybe at some point, I could slip away. Upstate. Pay someone a visit. On your behalf. Without anybody knowing.”

  Kathryn didn’t feel the tears coming, but when they did, they burst out of her in heaving sobs as Marcus guided her to his chest and muffled them before someone called the cops.

  CHAPTER 8

  The stink of ammonia hit Gwendolyn as soon as she walked into the deserted production offices of Dragnet. She fanned her purse to clear the air.

  “Hello? Is anybody here?” No answer. “HELLOO-OO!”

  Since the night that plump actress landed on her doorstep, Raymond Bourke had come to her again and again, and Dragnet had proved to be a handy sideline. So when a tetchy secretary called to say that the producer wanted to see her in his office, she was more than happy to oblige. But she couldn’t make it over into the Valley until after she closed the store.

  “That’ll be fine,” the secretary replied. “Our offices will be the only ones with the lights on.”

  Gwendolyn called out again.

  “I’ll be right with you.” The man’s voice sounded friendly enough, but it was hard to determine its origin.

  Gwendolyn wandered over to a poster hanging on the wall. It was a duplicate of the billboards that NBC had plastered across town advertising how Dragnet would be back with new episodes in September and reminding viewers that Sgt. Joe Friday wants the facts. Just the facts, ma’am.

  “You must be Miss Brick.”

  Michael Meshekoff wore no tie and disheveled hair.

  They shook hands.

  “I was just about to pour myself a drink. I have brandy, whiskey, and some pretty good scotch. I could probably even rustle up some sherry, if you’d prefer.”

  It had been a tiring day for Gwendolyn, too. She’d endured an unexpectedly long fitting session for the wife of the director of David and Bathsheba. Fox had high hopes for the picture, and the director’s wife had equally high hopes for the dress she’d wear to the premiere in August.

  “A sherry would be nice.”

  Meshekoff’s office was expansive but spare. A long, deep tartan sofa along the wall made Gwendolyn question whether accepting a drink was such a good idea. But he directed her to the chairs in front of his desk as he produced glasses and poured their drinks. He sat a sherry in front of her and took the other seat.

  “It’s late, so I’ll come to the point.” Meshekoff frowned the frown of someone with an unsavory task ahead of him. “I’m stretched pretty thin, and it only just recently came to my attention that you’ve been helping Raymond out with women’s wardrobe.”

  Gwendolyn sampled the sherry. It was top shelf. “If that’s a problem, you could’ve just called me. I wouldn’t have taken offense.” Drats. That Dragnet money’s been paying half my store rent.

  “I had to fire Raymond Bourke this morning,” Meshekoff said. “Some people just aren’t cut out for working at this pace. Miss Brick, I’d like to offer you the job of managing the wardrobe department for my show.”

  “Me?” Gwendolyn forced her sherry down. “I’m hardly—”

  “I live across the street from Billy Travilla and his wife, Dona. We often stop for a chat when I’m out walking my dog. We got talking the other day and—”

  “He suggested me?” Gwendolyn pictured the look on Billy’s face that night at the Crescendo. “I’m sorry, Mr. Meshekoff—”

  “Call me Mike.”

  “Thank you, but I have a store to run, clients to serve.”

  “NBC just increased our budget.”

  “Still, I’m going to have to decline your offer.”

  Meshekoff slid his scotch onto the desk and raked his fingers through his hair. “I’m a desperate man, Miss Brick. A weekly television show is like a battle cruiser: it stops for nobody.”

  “Dragnet is cops and detectives and bad guys,” Gwendolyn said. “You need a man running your wardrobe department, but one with good taste in women’s apparel.”

  “What I need is a replacement, but quick.”

  “Tell me, Mike, do you remember a haberdashery called Tattler’s Tuxedos?”

  “Sure. My dad always got his formalwear there. And when it came time for me to get my first suit, that’s where we shopped.”

  “What if I could get Horton Tattler for you?”

  Meshekoff planted his elbows on his knees and knitted his fingers together. “I know he fell on hard times, and all, but the Tattler name still carries a note of prestige.”

  “May I borrow your phone?”

  * * *

  Gwendolyn hadn’t been in the Vine Street Brown Derby in the three years since she’d opened her store, so she was pleased to see it hadn’t changed significantly. She suspected the booths had been reupholstered in the same rich, warm red, and the walls freshly repainted, too. But the place still had that same welcoming air. And of course the Derby wouldn’t be the Derby without the celebrity caricatures covering every inch of vertical space in neatly ordered lines.

  Horton Tattler was already seated in one of the booths. When he stood to greet her, it enabled her to take in the full sight of him.

  When Mike Meshekoff said that Horton had fallen on hard times, he was more right than he knew. The war had seen his once-notable fortunes dwindle, and after the restoration of peace, they hadn’t turned around until Gwendolyn gave him a stake in her original fragrance.

  Horton held his arms out wide, revealing his suit’s fraying cuffs. As she drew closer, she could see the faded colors in his yellow silk tie. “What a surprise to get your call,” he exclaimed. “And what a rare treat to see you, my darling girl.”

  She returned his hug, noting that he no longer wore his Tattler’s eau de cologne. She smelled only Lux soap.

  They slipped into the booth and accepted menus from the waiter. From the angle of his eyes, she could tell Horton was skimming the bottom of the page for the cheaper items.

  “This is my treat.” She waved away his protests. “I invited you, not the other way around, so none of this old-fashioned ‘the man must always pay’ nonsense. And besides, I’ve got an ulterior motive. I’m about to ask a favor, so the least I can do is pick up the check.”

  Mike Meshekoff was so enthusiastic at the thought of having Horton run wardrobe that Gwendolyn didn’t want to let him down. After placing their drink order, she asked Horton if he watched Dragnet.

  “I probably would if I could afford a television set.”

  “Here’s the thing: I’ve been helping out the guy in charge of wardrobe. I get a call when he’s stuck for a pretty outfit. Last night, I had a meeting with the producer.”

  “You are moving with a fast crowd these days.”

  “Not really. At any rate, he had to fire his wardrobe guy. So now he’s in the hole for a replacement, and wanted me to take over. I guess he thought my store would just run itself. I told him no, but offered up a Plan B.”

  A group seated at a long table at the end of the restaurant broke into cheers as the maître d’ presente
d them with a birthday cake spiked with a lit sparkler.

  “You’re my Plan B.”

  Horton blinked. “What?”

  “You should have seen the look on his face when he heard your name. His father used to shop with you all the time.”

  “Who is this chap?”

  “Meshekoff.”

  The waiter arrived with their drinks and asked if they were ready to order dinner, but Gwendolyn shooed him away.

  “I do remember that guy,” Horton said. “He only bought formal from me, but always the finest stuff. He had a kid, as I recall. A son.”

  “You sold him his first suit. His name’s Mike.”

  “And he’s the producer on Dragnet?”

  “He is, and I want you to consider taking the job of running the wardrobe department.”

  Horton pressed his hands to his mouth, his eyes bulging and unblinking.

  “You don’t need to give me your answer right this very minute,” Gwendolyn told him.

  He groped his pockets for a handkerchief and found one in the breast pocket of his jacket. He yanked it out with a quiet yip and pressed it to his eyes. Amid the hubbub of the restaurant, Gwendolyn couldn’t quite make out his strangled mutterings. Something about the embarrassment of losing something.

  “Do you need a moment to collect yourself?” Gwendolyn asked. “Perhaps you might want to—?”

  He expelled himself from the booth with a jerky nod, and scuttled, head down, toward the men’s room.

  Gwendolyn picked up the menu and pretended to study it. After a few minutes, Horton hadn’t returned, but she did spot a familiar face.

  Herman Dewberry had been her boss at Bullocks. In fact, he was responsible for her becoming the go-to dressmaker for a clandestine community of crossdressers she’d never known existed. When Gwendolyn decided to open her own store, Herman was one of the first people she told.

  She waved; he motioned for her to join him.

  His dinner companion had a vaguely Victorian air about him, rather like a genteel walrus. He did not stand when Gwendolyn approached their table, as Herman did, but he kissed her hand and asked her to join them.

  “A moment or two, perhaps.”

  Herman jacked a thumb toward the bathroom door. “Would you like me to go check on him?”

  “He just got a bit of a shock. A good one.” The door remained stationary. “I hope. Let’s give him a few minutes.”

  Herman said, “Please allow me to introduce my boss, Maxwell Schofield. Max, this is Gwendolyn Brick. She used to work for us in the fragrance department, and was quite the saleswoman too, I might add.”

  Schofield stroked the gold tiepin in his cravat. He leaned toward the center of the table and took in a deep sniff. “You’re wearing Sunset Boulevard, are you not?”

  “I am. I—”

  “My daughter is mad for it. So are half her friends. I know when she’s had a gang of them over to the house. The place smacks of it.”

  Gwendolyn couldn’t tell if he was complaining or simply making an observation.

  “Max,” Herman said, “do you remember I brought up Miss Brick in our recent management conference?”

  Schofield’s silvery brows started twitching as his milky blue eyes took in a new appreciation of this girl at his table. “Chez Gwendolyn? On the Sunset Strip?”

  “That’s me.”

  “So this Sunset Boulevard perfume everybody is so mad for, it’s yours?” Schofield thumped the table. “That puts an entirely new complexion on the matter.”

  “It does?”

  “Miss Brick!” Schofield said, “I have a proposition for you.” A fat Dutch Masters cigar had been sitting neglected in the ashtray. He picked it up and took a deep pull.

  There was still no sign of Horton.

  “We would like—very much, I might add—to stock your perfume.”

  “My Sunset Boulevard? In your stores?” The offer left Gwendolyn a little breathless.

  Pull yourself together, she told herself. This is a business deal. Don’t stammer like an ingénue in a Jerome Kern musical.

  “I’ve done very well with my perfume, but its major selling point has been its exclusivity at my store, and my store alone.”

  “It’s a draw card,” Schofield said. “It’s what pulls your customers in. While they’re there, you show them a pair of opera gloves, maybe a scarf, which happens to be draped over the most expensive outfit in your collection. Miss Brick, retail is my life; I understand the process thoroughly. That’s why we’re prepared to offer you a handsome deal.”

  She peeked at Herman. He shot back, “A very handsome deal.”

  “I’ll need some time to think about this,” she said. “Perhaps if you could put something in writing?”

  “I’m sure we could get a formal proposal in the mail to Miss Brick by this time next week.”

  Horton started picking his way through the restaurant; the color had returned to his cheeks. She thanked both men, shaking their hands like a businesswoman should, and arrived at their booth at the same time as Horton.

  “I’m so very sorry about that. Such a display from a gentleman of my advanced years.”

  “This is the Brown Derby,” Gwendolyn reminded him. “You think they haven’t seen worse?”

  “Perhaps you’re right.”

  “So, the Dragnet job?”

  “Tell him I can start tomorrow if need be.”

  “Wonderful!” Gwendolyn clapped her hands. “It’s quite possible Mike will take you up on that.”

  Horton jutted his head toward Herman’s table. “That wasn’t Maxwell Schofield I saw you with, was it?”

  “You know him?”

  “Back in my Tattler’s Tuxedos days, we frequently did business together.”

  “Is he a good guy? Can I trust him?”

  “Absolutely. He comes from the ‘His word is his bond’ school of business. Why?”

  Gwendolyn related the offer Schofield had just made.

  “You’re going to take it, aren’t you?” Horton asked.

  “I should at least see the offer first. When it comes in, maybe I could show it to you?”

  “Of course, but if it comes from Schofield, you can be sure it’s a square deal.” After a heavy pause, his voice took on a choking quality. “My dear, thank you for this opportunity with Dragnet. I won’t let you down.”

  The bunch at the end of the room with the sparkling birthday cake let off three raucous hip-hip-hoorays. Gwendolyn raised her glass. “Between my Bullocks and your Dragnet, it almost feels like they’re cheering us on.”

  CHAPTER 9

  The set of Humphrey Bogart’s new picture looked to Marcus like it had been cobbled together from discarded plans for Rick’s Café Américain: plain walls, ceiling fans, scattered tables. He’d never given much thought to what 1920s Syria resembled, but he guessed it wasn’t 1940s Morocco. Still, the geometric tiles were a nice touch, and so was the decorative arch behind the bar.

  Marcus pulled at the collar of his French soldier’s uniform. The leather strap secured across his chest pressed the brass buttons into his ribs and he wished he hadn’t declined the offer of talcum powder. But Doris’ last words to him that morning were,

  “The Screen Extras Guild can get pretty jumpy if they know a nonmember is on set, so keep a low profile. Just nod and say ‘Yes, sir.’ The union rep is a vindictive little creep who goes out of his way to throw grief at me, so don’t give him a chance, capisce?”

  Marcus hadn’t found a scrap of work in three months. As much as he liked being back in LA, his mind kept wandering back to his favorite Roman bistros, thick with the aroma of garlic, tomatoes, roasted eggplant, and fried onions. And the coffee—strong, black espresso from elaborate contraptions Jules Verne might have dreamed up. Stovetop espresso pots were okay in a pinch, but the watery swill they served in American diners was like comparing a Keystone Kops short to a Technicolor musical out of MGM’s Freed Unit.

  When Marcus’ duties shifted from
screenwriter to on-set photographer for Quo Vadis, Mervyn LeRoy intentionally neglected to tell the location accountant to adjust his pay accordingly. Consequently, Marcus returned home with a healthy wad of cash, but American dollars went a lot further in Europe than they did in LA.

  A week ago, Marcus checked his bank balance and was horrified to learn that he barely had enough to cover next month’s rent for his cheap room in the Garden of Allah’s main house. Kathryn had offered to let him crash on her sofa, but pride and independence choked off anything but “No thanks.”

  He needed to find work—and fast.

  His sister, Doris, came to the rescue. She worked at Columbia juggling soundstages and personnel logistics between the studio’s feature film production and its television shows.

  He was thankful for the work, even when she told him it was on the set of Sirocco. Bogie had lived at the Garden a couple of times, and Marcus saw him as a colleague. But now Bogie was one of the world’s biggest movie stars, and Marcus was a guy in the background suffocating in a French soldier’s uniform for less per day than Bogie probably spent on tobacco.

  As extras started to file onto the set, the assistant director cupped his hands to his mouth. “Take a seat at any table. When the cameras start rolling, keep in mind that you joined the French army to be a soldier, but you’re stuck in Damascus where it’s hot and boring and the locals resent the crap out of you. You’ve come to the Moulin Rouge for relaxation, booze, and the chance you might pick up a broad who’ll let you feel her up for a Syrian pound or two.”

  A redheaded guy with more freckles than sense stuck his hand up. “How much is a Syrian pound worth?”

  “What difference does that make?”

  “Should I be peeling off one bill or two?”

  The guy behind the arched bar wore a red fez and a white smock buttoned at the shoulder. “Hey, Charlie! Do you think anyone in the Levant is going to see this picture? Just shut the hell up, sit the hell down, and do what the man says.”

  He lifted the fez from his head, revealing a dark purple birthmark the shape of the Carthay Circle Theatre tower. Marcus headed toward a four-top table on the far side of the set. Doris’ lecture had included a strong warning to avoid the guy with the birthmark. “That’s Pierce. He’s the Guild rep. A real union guy. A-1 stickler for the rules. If he finds out that there’s a nonmember working on one of his sets, there’ll be hell to pay. Mostly by me.”